Sarah chivvied her apprentice into the workroom after locking the door. They stopped at a street vendor for a cup of broth on the way home from the school, but she needed something to calm her nerves. “Put the kettle on,” she shouted upstairs to her mother. “Giles and I are in need of tea.”

Not expecting a response, she wasn’t surprised when none came. “First we’ll have tea,” she said as she removed the annoying bonnet, “then we’ll set about cleaning and dusting so we can reopen the shop on the morrow.”

Giles took off his cape. “Mam always said I wasn’t much good at cleaning, but tea sounds good.”

This young lad touched her heart. Despite being orphaned and suffering brutal punishment at school, he hadn’t lost his sunny disposition. She decided to break a rule and allow him upstairs to enjoy his tea. “Up you go,” she told him as they entered the main shop. “Tell Mrs. Ward I said it was all right. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Thanks, Mrs. North,” he replied, before taking the steps two at a time.

She closed her eyes and put a hand on the counter, indulging in the calming ritual of inhaling the familiar aromas. But something was different. There was a faint hint of the scent of a man. Her eyes flew open. Munro had been in the shop in her absence. Heart beating too fast, she vacillated between elation and annoyance. How had he gained entry? She started toward the stairs, ready to interrogate her mother, but Giles had hurried back down.

“Mrs. Ward isn’t upstairs,” he said.

Air whooshed from her lungs. Munro had taken her mother. No, that didn’t make sense. Her mother had gone out with Munro. But where? And why? And how had they unlocked the door?

Giles touched her arm. “Mayhap she went to church.”

St. Martin’s…Reverend Grove…oh God.

She yanked open the door and looked towards St. Martin’s, relieved to see her mother coming down the steps on Reverend Grove’s arm. But where was Munro? Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Her mother clutched a bundle. As far as she knew, Mary Ward had no money of her own, so somebody…

Thoughts tumbled over each other. She’d assumed her mother couldn’t get out of a locked shop and that had proven to be false. Evidently, Reginald’s key hadn’t been hidden well enough.

By the time her mother and Reverend Grove reached her, confusion had struck her dumb.

“Mrs. Ward has had an exciting day,” the cleric said with a forced smile. “It was my pleasure to meet her at last.”

Sarah detected no hint Munro Pendray had accompanied her mother, or that her secret had been revealed.

Giles reached for Mary’s bundle. “I can take that for you,” he offered.

“Nay,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

“You’d better stay down here,” Sarah told her apprentice, afraid of what an obviously exhausted Mary might say. “I’ll get my mother settled.”

He nodded. “I can make tea on the wood-stove in the workroom.”

Grateful for his thoughtfulness, she followed Mary as she struggled on the stairs, finally prying the bundle from her grip. “You bought a frock?”

“For my funeral,” came the unexpected reply as her mother climbed into bed and closed her eyes.

It was on the tip of Sarah’s tongue to ask who had bought the garment, and about the spare key, but her mother lay so still she feared for a moment she’d truly died.

The grief that surged in her throat came as a complete surprise. She’d long thought she wouldn’t feel anything when her mother died. Just as she’d felt nothing—except perhaps relief—when news came of Henry Marten’s passing.

“Don’t die yet, Mama,” she whispered.

Mary opened her eyes. “I’ve fulfilled my promise to thy father. He fretted about thee and thy sisters. I don’t want to go on living without him, and I’ve done all I can. Thou art in the Lord’s hands now.” She closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

The tears made it difficult for Sarah to undo the string tied around her mother’s purchase. True to her nature and beliefs, Mary Ward had chosen a grey frock that buttoned to the neck. However, it was more fitting funeral attire than the dowdy dress she suspected her mother had worn for many years. A woman who’d sacrificed a great deal for the man she loved deserved to be buried with dignity.

Twelve years confined to a prison hadn’t diminished her ardor, though they’d never been wed.

“Tea’s ready,” Giles shouted.

Sarah laid out the new frock at the foot of the bed. “Thank you, Munro Pendray,” she whispered.

She tiptoed downstairs, now keenly aware of the emptiness her mother must have felt facing life without the man she craved.

“How is she?” Giles asked.

“Not well,” she answered, fearing she might later find her mother had died, but more terrified of being present when she passed.

They drank their tea, then set about cleaning, dusting and washing utensils. The activity occupied her hands, but worry for her mother and regret for Munro lay like a lead weight on her heart.

Giles kept up a steady stream of chatter, clearly intent on taking her mind off things.

Late in the afternoon, she fished in her pocket for the sixpence and handed it to Giles. “Go to the market and buy bread and cheese.”

As if sensing the dilemma, he offered, “I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you are,” she countered. “We must eat to keep up our strength, and bread is all I can afford. Make sure the grocer gives you change. It will have to last a while. We’ll definitely have to reopen on the morrow.”

“What about Mrs. Ward?” he asked.

She tousled his black curls. “You’re a thoughtful lad. We’ll simply have to leave her in bed and hope she’ll recover.”

“I can pop up to check on her once in a while. Mr. Pendray might help.”

Shaking her head, she smiled her thanks as she unlocked the door. “Go now. Bring food. I’ll be upstairs.”

Despite her assertion, she lingered in the shop, putting off the inevitable, and was still puttering when he returned after a quarter hour. He counted out the change into her hand. “You did well,” she said, breaking off a chunk of bread and a piece of cheese for him. “Enjoy your supper in the workroom.”

He nodded and left, probably relieved he didn’t have to face whatever she might find in the apartment, but he came back momentarily with a lit taper.

Grateful again for his perception, she climbed the stairs wearily and paused at the top, peering into the gathering gloom in an effort to ascertain if the pale woman in the bed still breathed.

Relieved when the usual soft snoring drifted to her ears, she put the food on the table, then set about lighting candles.

The glow of the flickering flames made her mother look even more like a cadaver. Helplessness flooded her. Downstairs lay the makings of a thousand remedies for all kinds of ailments, but she knew in her heart nothing would prevent Mary Ward from rejoining her beloved Harry. She had never felt so alone. “Munro,” she sobbed, filled with regret for what might have been.

“He loves thee,” her mother rasped.

Too exhausted to engage in an argument, Sarah asked, “Are you hungry? There’s bread and…”

“Nay. Tell Pendray thou art in love with him.”

Tears rolled unbidden down Sarah’s cheeks. “I can’t.”

She expected a retort but Mary had drifted off. She nibbled half-heartedly at the bread and cheese for a while, listening to her mother’s labored breathing.

On the point of falling asleep in the chair beside the bed, she finally disrobed, blew out all the candles, save one, and crawled between the sheets.